


Stages

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Series: The Right Hand [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Budding Love, Childhood Friends, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm realizing there are a lot of letters in this series...The Viscount's Keep receives some disturbing news, and Cullen and Sylvie's relationship deepens.</p><p>Edited by the fantastic <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Fatally_Procrastinating?ty=c">fatally-procrastinating</a> for my Patreon reward!</p><p>Artwork by the talented <a href="http://greyallison.tumblr.com">greyallison </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages

 Cullen awoke to an insistent pounding on the door. It wasn’t yet dawn and he had to fumble through the darkness for the candle and his flint and steel. 

“Come on, Curly,” Varric’s voice called. “I know you’re in there.” 

An impatient groan was his only reply. He threw off the latch and glared down at the man. “What is it?” 

Varric held out a letter with the word urgent written along its side. Cullen set the candle aside, eyes still heavy with nightmares of the gallows as he unrolled the parchment. 

Leliana’s writing was dry, factual and free of personal color. The Inquisitor’s mark had become wildly unstable as of late for no discernable reason and was spreading at a rapid clip, flaring up Tara’s arm and into her shoulder. The Inquisition had called on a team of arcane experts in the absence of Solas who had come to a consensus that there was no known way to stop the corruption. The original members of the inner circle had been contacted in the event that any were able to spare a visit. The letter concluded with instructions to keep the information private, even though Cullen thought that went without saying. 

The two of them remained silent after Cullen read through the letter a second time. Varric laid a gentle hand on Cullen’s shoulder. 

“Breakfast?” Varric asked. 

Cullen nodded, handing the letter back to him. The dwarf’s fingers squeezed gently before he left Cullen alone with his thoughts. 

Cullen didn’t recall dressing or washing up, or even making his way to Varric’s quarters an hour later. He could read between the lines of the spymaster’s message, the words that went unsaid, and he was certain Varric recognized it as well.

Tara was dying. Or, at least her advisors thought her to be. A part of him dully refused to believe it. 

Not because of any lingering shadows of the love he once felt for her, or the past they shared, but because she was Tara Trevelyan, the unstoppable Inquisitor who had saved Thedas and had faced down an ancient magister, dragons, endless demons, and red templars with only a handful of broken bones to show for it. Tara, who was the first person to physically walk the fade and live to talk about it. Tara, the fiercely stubborn rogue who refused to let anything get in the way of what she wanted, not even the feelings of those she cared for most. A person like that simply did not die.

His mouth twitched as he listlessly spread jam on the sweet roll he wouldn’t likely finish. When he had first joined the Inquisition, when they had pulled her from the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, they were certain she would not live. Solas had warned them that his efforts to save her might not be enough, that the magic seared into her hand was unlike anything he’d encountered. And yet, she had not only endured but had _thrived_ in spite of the strange mark, even turning it into a weapon. To have that same mark draining her life away — it was unthinkable. 

Varric sat quietly across from him, picking at his poached eggs, wearing a set of bags under his eyes that rivaled his own.

“So,” the Viscount said, “I’ve decided to leave for Skyhold at dawn. I’m guessing Cass is planning on going as well, you know. For appearances, if nothing else. Isn’t there some kind of…thing the Chantry does in these sort of situations?”

Cullen shifted in his seat, nodding. “Yes, there’s a rite typically done during someone’s final moments. It’s rare to have such advance notice.” He felt cold at how little those words affected him.

Varric sipped his coffee. “Would make more sense if we traveled together. That is, if you’re planning on going.” His eyes darted to Cullen’s before looking back into his cup.

“If the Divine is going,” Cullen said, “then yes, it is my duty to accompany her. I’m sure I’ll receive a raven from the Grand Cathedral before the day is through.” He set the roll down and dusted the crumbs from his hands.

“Right,” Varric said, drawing out the word. “Wouldn’t be for any personal reasons, of course.”

Cullen prodded his egg with his fork, his lips flattening. “You know the situation is complicated.”

Varric leaned forward, his voice rising slightly. “I wrote the book on complicated relationships, Curly. But I’ll tell you something: if Bianca was in Tara’s shoes, not even all the dragons in Thedas could keep me away from her side.”

Cullen said nothing, a reflection of the hollowness he’d been feeling since he’d read the letter.

“She wrote me not too long ago, you know,” the dwarf said quietly. “I hadn’t heard from her in a while, and she was talking about retiring in the Free Marches with knitting needles and a mabari.” He snorted. “I should have known something was up.”

Understanding came over Cullen, and he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. “I too received a similar letter.”

Varric smirked. “Then you probably had the same reaction I did. Could you imagine Tara Trevelyan with a pet? This is a woman who almost got into a physical altercation with her own horse.”

Cullen huffed in amusement. “Sometime after you left, a Fereldan lord visited Skyhold with his hounds. Every single one of them prickled at the mere sight of her. For a moment there, I was worried I’d have to draw my blade.”

Varric chuckled. “Isn’t there a Ferelden law or something where you’re forbidden to kill a dog?”

Cullen smirked. “Something like that.” He paused while he managed to take another bite of food. Varric did the same.

“She apologized, in the letter,” Cullen said thoughtfully. “For everything. It was the first time I actually believed that she meant it.” 

Varric nodded slowly. “There’s an impulse, when facing death, to square away any unfinished business, to right past wrongs. Many don’t get that chance.” The room went quiet while Cullen reflected on his words.

The legs of Varric’s chair groaned against the stone when he pushed back from the table and stood. “Well, I have some things to take care of before I leave. Let me know what you decide.” 

Varric walked toward the door, then turned back to Cullen. “Curly, if you’re worried about Sylvie, don’t be. She’ll understand.” 

And then Cullen was left alone with enough food to feed ten people and his own largely untouched plate. He ran a finger lightly over the glossy swirls of an artfully crafted pastry and wondered if Sylvie’s hands had touched that very same dough.

He’d loved Tara once, with every fiber of his being. Yet he felt only detached resignation at the news, however implied, of her passing, and it disturbed him.

***

Cullen found Sylvie where he expected to: in the kitchen, prepping the midday meal. Her warm smile quickly faded when she registered the look on his face. Before he could speak, she asked her second to cover for her and led him into the small adjacent room.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pulling the tie on her head wrap and shaking her curls out, momentarily distracting him.

“I’m, uh, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Do you want some tea?”

He nodded, taking a seat. “That would be nice, thanks.”

She poured him a cup from the still-warm pot and handed it over, sitting next to him.

“What’s troubling you?”

His inclination was to start at the beginning, to explain the nature of the mark and what little they knew about it, and how it had progressed over the years, but he ended up blurting out, “Tara may be dying.”

She gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Maker, no. What happened?”

“It’s the mark on her hand, the one that closed all the rifts. Apparently, it’s spreading, consuming her. I received a letter; it sounds like she doesn’t have much time.”

Her hand went to his forearm and rubbed it soothingly. “I’m so sorry, Cullen. This must be very hard for you.”

“That’s just it!” he said, more loudly than he intended, roughly setting the teacup down and pacing the room. “I feel _nothing_. Only...uncertainty.”

“You’re just in shock, or denial,” she said calmly. “It’s a very common reaction.”

“I’ve witnessed death before, Sylvie. More than any man should, and I always feel _something_. Anger, grief, even for those I barely knew.”

“But this is different. It’s not in the midst of battle or on the gallows, this is slow, intangible. And she’s someone you once loved very dearly. Or…” She looked down at her hands, picking at her fingers. “Or, perhaps you still do.” 

He stopped moving and fixated on her. “No. It’s not like that. That much I know.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before she spoke.

“I assume you’re leaving for Skyhold, then.”

He sighed, his hand going reflexively to his neck. “I should, yes.” He was going to assure her he would be traveling back to Skyhold out of duty to the Divine, but he recalled Varric’s words from earlier. “It’s only right.”

She nodded, eyes everywhere but on his. “I agree.”

He stepped closer. “That doesn’t bother you?”

She shot him an admonishing glance. “Cullen, what kind of monster would I be if I forbade you from seeing a dying woman?”

He reached down and took her by the hand, pulling her up to her feet. “A beautiful one,” he said, completely serious, trying to hold her gaze as she nervously looked away.

“That’s very sweet, but I hardly think this is the time for flirting.”

A compulsion overtook him. He needed to be closer to her, and not only as friends. It suddenly seemed so wrong that they hadn’t moved past chaste hugs during his time in Kirkwall, and he couldn’t for the life of him recall _why_ they were taking things so slow, because every moment they had spent together had felt so incredibly right. And now he would be leaving in the morning without knowing when he would see her again. The very thought threatened to panic him.

He could sense that she was having the same thoughts. It was in the rise and fall of her bosom, the way her green eyes pooling with black slowly lifted up under long eyelashes to meet his, the way her lips parted just slightly, the charge that was rising in the air around them.

He placed a hand on her hip and pulled her closer, noticing how eagerly she moved with him. Her forearms braced against his chest, her fingertips tickling his collar bones, and they were finally close, intimate, chests and hips and thighs touching, her warmth radiating and calming him to the core. 

His hand came up to brush her hair away from her face before cupping her jaw, and her arms slipped around his waist. Her eyes fluttered as he dragged his thumb across her cheek, her skin soft as silk. He tilted his head and leaned in, pure instinct taking control, and touched his lips to hers.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation. Sylvie was sweet and warm, so impossibly soft, her lips easily yielding to his, her breath puffing unsteadily from her nose onto his cheek. He took her face in both hands and turned his head, their mouths still connected and finding a slow, rolling rhythm in the kiss, opening up to each other a little further. A tiny noise escaped from her throat, he felt it more than he heard it, and her hands climbed up his back. The kiss intensified, moving faster, pressing harder, and he felt her tongue tickle his upper lip. He smiled against her mouth and exposed himself to her fully then, sliding his tongue against hers and becoming utterly lost, breaths hissing from flared nostrils, hands trailing over faces and hair, hips locked together.

When they finally pulled away from each other they were breathless, wearing intoxicated smiles. He gently bumped his forehead against hers.

“Wow,” she gasped, causing him to grin.

“Still friends?” he teased, and she giggled.

He brought her in again and held her tight and she laid her head against his shoulder, her hands sliding idly up and down his back. That was the moment when Cullen realized that he didn’t want to be apart from her, not now, not ever, and he wanted her to know it.

As if she read his thoughts she lifted her head and faced him, her green eyes wide and adoring. His lips dusted against her cheek once, twice, and he spoke low near her ear.

“Come with me.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the slow updates - I can only write when the mood strikes, you know? Feedback and questions are welcome. And I'm freaking out over this art, I won it in a raffle and it's just...ugh, so perfect.


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